


Reality

by AutisticWriter



Series: Mental Illness Headcanons [12]
Category: Harry & Paul (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Crying, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8442007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: After Mr Lovelock finds him hurting himself, Clive ends up at the vets. Also at the vets is Darren, the man who took the Lovelock family photos not that long ago. Once again, Darren finds Clive's treatment appalling, and tries his hardest to help him.





	

Rupert woke up when it was still dark. It was a freezing winter night, and he just wanted to curl up under the duvet and go back to sleep, but his bursting bladder wouldn’t let him. Sighing, Rupert hauled himself out of bed and dashed into the en suite toilet. He only just made it in time. But, after he had finished and was about to wash his hands, he found that there was no soap.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

Sighing again, Rupert hurried off to use the family bathroom, wishing he’d put his slippers on as his feet hit the freezing cold floor. When he reached the bathroom, he washed his hands under hot water in an attempt to warm himself up, and then hurried back to his bedroom.

But, as he was crossing the threshold, he heard something that made him stop. He heard a loud thud from somewhere downstairs, and groaned. The only one who was downstairs at night was Clive, so he must have been the one to make that noise. What on Earth was Clive doing?

Remembering to put on his slippers and dressing gown this time, Rupert, suppressing a sigh, went downstairs and prepared to tell Clive off. He trailed down the stairs to the first floor, where Clive’s bedroom (simply the spare room with a mattress in it) and the living room were located. Now he was closer, he could hear a different, quieter noise coming from Clive’s bedroom. It sounded like Clive was crying.

But, he told himself, that was ridiculous! Why would Clive be crying? He didn’t know that Northerners could even cry.

Still . . . he found himself tiptoeing closer to the door. As he did so, the sounds only got louder, and they were starting to sound more and more like sobs. Rupert was so confused; he had to know what was going on. With a sense of apprehension, he silently opened the door and stuck his head around the corner . . . and what he saw made his stomach clench.

Clive was hunched up on the floor beside his mattress, wearing just his underpants. Rupert could hear him sobbing even more clearly now. In the near darkness, Rupert saw his thighs and hands looked darker than usual, but he didn’t know what was causing this – at least until he saw what was gripped in one of Clive’s trembling hands.

It looked like a razor blade. But why would Clive have . . .?

Suddenly, Clive moved the razor and pressed it against his arm. With a hissing breath, he pressed it down, and Rupert realised what the darkness was.

It was blood.

“Clive!” He cried, snapping the light on.

There was blood everywhere, literally everywhere. His hands were slicked with it, it was smeared all over his thighs, and it was dripping onto the lino. He was staring up at Rupert with wide, tear filled eyes; the blade fell from his hand and hit the floor. His mouth moved wordlessly, but that wasn’t where Rupert was looking. He found his eyes drifting to the cut on Clive’s forearm, just below his elbow, and then he saw the other cuts. Some were nearly healed – one was even a scar – but most looked like he hadn’t been done that long ago; but none of them looked as deep as the gash that was currently leaking blood.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Clive shuffled backwards, banging his back against the wall. He still didn’t seem able to speak – not that that mattered, considering Rupert could never understand a word Clive said.

“You idiot, Clive!”

Clive babbled something, seeming to be repeating the same phrase over and over again, but Rupert ignored him. Rupert ran out of the room and into the kitchen, where the first aid kit was kept. He grabbed it and raced back to Clive’s room, and dropped the box on the floor in front of him.

“Right, sort yourself out, please,” he said.

Clive mumbled something, and then opened the first aid kit. Rupert couldn’t help but stare at Clive, wondering why on Earth he would have wanted to cut himself. Still, knowing his vacant Northerner, there might not have been a reason at all.

Almost an hour later, Clive finally finished cleaning up. Rupert had to help him when it came to wrapping a bandage around his arm, but, other than that, he sat back on his haunches and let the stupid sod sort himself out. After all, this wasn’t _his_ fault, was it?

\---

Darren took a seat in the waiting room, putting his cat’s box on his lap. He looked through the mesh and she meowed at him. He was terribly worried about her, but at least he was going to get his appointment on time; at eight in the morning, the surgery was almost totally empty.

He looked up as the front door opened, and his jaw dropped. There were two men stood in the doorway, one of them looking sleep deprived and irritable, the other, only wearing pyjama bottoms, looking weak, drained, tearful and horribly pale, and there were blood stained bandages wrapped around his arm. Darren had seen the two men before, and he certainly remembered where; the encounter with Rupert Lovelock and Clive was crystal clear in his memory.

Rupert had booked an appointment for a family photo session a few months ago, and had come along with his wife and daughter to have their pictures taken. But that was perfectly normal; what was bizarre and horrifying was that he then brought Clive into the room, and proceeded to treat what was clearly a man as a pet. They all tormented him, mocking his accent and calling him ugly, and poor Clive looked so _sad_. Still, he looked a hell of a lot worse now.

Rupert got Clive to sit on the floor opposite Darren (he noticed that Clive didn’t argue this time), and went up to the desk. Once he was sure Rupert wasn’t looking, Darren leaned forwards in his seat, and stared at Clive. He saw that Clive’s hands were covered in what looked like congealed blood, and his heart beat increased as he wondered if it was Rupert who had hurt him. Clive looked up and saw him looking at him, and Darren saw his lips twitch into the smallest, saddest smile.

Darren sat back in his seat as Rupert came back over, and sat down in the seat next to Clive’s spot on the floor. He spotted Darren, and his eyes widened slightly.

“Hello,” he said, smiling. “I recognise you. Have we met before?”

Darren, a little taken aback that Rupert was now being so cheerful, forced himself to smile back. “I did your family photos back in July.”

“Ah, of course!” Rupert said. He glanced at the cat box, and added, “What are you here for?”

“My cat’s poorly,” Darren said, still looking at Clive, who was sat hunched forwards with his legs crossed and his eyes fixed on the floor.

Rupert gave Darren what he assumed was supposed to be a sympathetic smile. He clapped Clive a little too hard on the shoulder, and he winced.

“Clive here is injured. I think he might need stitches, so I thought I’d better bring him in.”

Darren smiled awkwardly. Luckily, he was saved from further conversation when the Vet called him into the consultation room. Picking up his box, Darren cast one last look at Clive and followed after the Vet.

\---

Darren spent much longer with the Vet than he thought, but, eventually, he left the room with his cat back in the case, and three different packs of medication to hopefully make her better. He made his way to reception and had just finished paying when he heard an all too familiar voice.

“Tha’ hurt, Mista Lovelock,” Clive was saying shakily in his thick accent, and, as though to prove his point, he made a series of whining noises, reminding Darren of a wounded dog.

Darren turned his head and saw Clive and Rupert coming down the corridor. Clive was stumbling slightly, clearly feeling wobbly, and Rupert had his arms crossed across his chest, looking pissed off.

“Yes, well, it needed to be done,” Rupert’s voice was flippant and biting; there was no sympathy there at all. “And, besides, if you hadn’t hurt yourself we wouldn’t have needed to come here, would we?”

“I di’n’t mean to hurt maself, it just kinda happened, like,” Clive said. Darren could see a much smaller bandage on his arm, and that his hands were no longer covered in blood. It didn’t really make him look much better.

“Just wait here,” Rupert said, clearly not listening to what Clive was saying.

Raising his eyebrows, he left Clive in the waiting area and went up to the reception desk. Darren stepped to the side and went back over to the chairs to pick up his cat. As he passed Clive, he couldn’t help but notice that Clive had sat down on one of the chairs. Darren felt a bit anxious on his behalf, as he was certain he knew what was coming. Sure enough . . .

“Clive! Get down!”

Rupert stormed across the room and grabbed Clive’s arm, forcing the smaller man to his feet. Clive winced, screwing his face up.

“Sorry, Mista Lovelock,” Clive cried out, his voice cracking like he was about to cry.

Rupert started clicking his fingers and pressing down on Clive’s back, clearly trying to force Clive to sit down. Darren couldn’t take this anymore. Putting down his cat box, his took a deep breath and went over to them.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t treat him like that,” he said, trying to sound calm even though he was horribly angry.

Clive stared at him, and, up close like this, Darren saw his eyes were swollen like he’d been crying. If possible, that made Darren even angrier. Rupert rounded on him, his eyes wide.

“And since when are you allowed to control how I treat my own pets,” Rupert said, in a faux-polite tone of voice.

“He’s not a pet! He’s a human being!” Darren cried.

Clive smiled at him like he was the first person in his life that had treated him like what he really was; and Darren realised, he probably was.

“It don’ matta—”

“Quiet, Clive!” Rupert snapped.

“Why can’t he talk?”

Rupert rolled his eyes. “What is the bloody point of him talking when no one knows what he’s saying?”

Darren sighed. “I can understand him!”

Clive looked delighted for a few seconds, but the smile slid from his face when he saw Mr Lovelock glaring at him.

“What on Earth do you mean?” Rupert said, sounding genuinely confused this time.

Darren sighed. “He’s just talking English with a Geordie accent.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” Rupert said, waggling a finger at Darren. “Geordies can’t speak English.”

“What?!” Darren spluttered. This was insane. What the hell was this man talking about?

“You heard me,” Rupert said, looking at Darren like he was an idiot.

“I’ll be you’re the one who hurt him, aren’t you?” Darren snarled, watching Rupert’s face flush.

“How dare you!”

Clive looked like he wanted to say something, and reached out to touch Rupert’s shoulder. But Rupert swatted his hand away.

“Leave it, Clive!”

Obediently, Clive backed away a few steps, looking between him and Darren.

“So who hurt him, then?” Darren yelled.

“Gentlemen, will you be quiet!” The receptionist shouted from the other side of the waiting room.

Rupert looked like he wanted to punch Darren across the face. Darren felt much the same way.

“Well, sir, it—”

“Clive!” Rupert yelled. He sighed. “If you really must know, he hurt himself. Cut himself with a razor blade.”

“What?” Darren said, horrified.

“I’ve bin a bit depressed, like,” Clive mumbled, and even Rupert didn’t shut him up this time.

“I walked in on him in the night slicing his arm open with a blade from one of my razors, the stupid clout. I had nothing to do with it.”

Clive ducked his head, his very pale face flushing slightly. He looked like he was going to cry.

“Jesus!” Darren cried. He turned to Clive. “Are you all right? Do you think you need meds, or something?”

“He doesn’t need anything,” Rupert snapped, but Darren saw Clive give him a brief but grateful smile. “He’s fine, aren’t you, Clive?”

Clive looked like he wanted to cry as he ducked his head and mumbled, “Yes, Mista Lovelock, sir.”

“See,” Rupert said, and irritatingly smug look on his face. “Come along, Clive.”

Darren wanted to say something, to stop him, to get poor Clive out of that awful situation, but all he could do was stand there helplessly as Rupert led poor Clive out of the Vets.


End file.
